


In space, no one can hear you pine over a fishman

by OhNoNotAnotherFakeGeekGirl



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aliens, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Ghosts, Mer-people, Multi, Parent-Child Dynamics, Robots, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Vampires, Werewolves, graphic violence played for laughs, look it makes sense in context, set in the halo universe but not in the war, superheroes vs monsters but in space, superpowered freelancers, think buffy meets red dwarf and also the x men are there, weird ass plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoNotAnotherFakeGeekGirl/pseuds/OhNoNotAnotherFakeGeekGirl
Summary: An absolutely insane AU featuring vampires, werewolves, merfolk, ghosts, aliens, cat people, killer robots, superheroes, romance, journeys of self discovery, makeovers, found family, and intergalactic manhunts.(Formerly titled The Vernon Incident)





	1. Scented Candles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone’s imagined a vampire lurking in the silence of the crypt.
> 
> A werewolf stalking the forest by the light of the full moon.
> 
> A ghost roaming the hallowed grounds of where it passed.
> 
> A siren lurking in wait for prey in the murky depths of the ocean.
> 
> A crumpled flying saucer half-buried in a crater at the outskirts of a rural desert town.
> 
> I want you to take all of those images and throw them in the garbage. 

_F1 Observation note regarding the procession and aftermath of all future containment breaches: when personnel are disposing of a cluster of unknown and unpredictable life forms, personnel must assure to account for every being in that cluster._

* * *

If, on the 30th of November 2530, you had passed by Lieutenant Richard Simmons in the hallway, and asked him which he would rather be; a werewolf or a vampire; he would have likely said something to the effect of “Hey, pal, I don’t know what you’re doing asking that question, but some of us have to work today,” and resumed making an orderly beeline to the interview room.

Simmons took his job so seriously that he hung his entire self-worth on it like the six smartly pressed workplace regulation UNSCPC uniforms currently in the closet in his bunk. (Naturally, he was currently wearing the seventh.) Since joining the army, he no longer owned any civilian clothes, and was proud of this fact- Richard Simmons had been raised a career man. Upon enlisting, Simmons had abandoned every witty t-shirt, Star Wars poster, and signed prop replica he had to his name to the depths of eBay’s shipping system, and proudly devoted every waking moment since to the drills, reports, equipment maintenance and other such errands he had to perform every day. It was fine. Really.

Inwardly, however, he would have thought smugly to himself; _I’d be a werewolf, of course._ _What kind of idiotic slumber party question is that?_

Lieutenant Simmons was, regrettably, only human. And, just as the errant internet user in an idle moment will unthinkingly pick their nose, or perhaps read some smutty fanfiction on their phone, Simmons would _sometimes _let his mind wonder, as he went about his business, about Things That Were Not Work. For good reason, of course- the human mind explores absurd hypothetical tangents not to be lazy, but to train and refine its decision-making capabilities in event of unexpected scenarios that consequentially resemble those in hypothesis. Naturally.

It also didn’t hurt that his actual day job was working with _actual_ vampires and werewolves; so yes, Simmons would consider that particular ‘would you rather’ question to be a perfectly acceptable idle workplace thought- after all, he had his priorities in order. Simmons was perfectly open to eventually allowing himself the chance to enjoy the unpredictable whims of life- just so long as they didn’t interfere with his first two goals of steadily ascending the Army’s ranks, and contributing every unnecessary cent of his salary to his father’s retirement fund.

Well… working “with” vampires and werewolves was a bit of a stretch. A more accurate description of Simmons’ occupation is that he worked in the UNSC’s paranormal corps’s IT department. More accurate still, is that he was freshly promoted to _manager_ of the UNSC’s Paranormal Corps’s IT department. Even centuries after the invention of the first programming languages, the field of computer science was still far less glamorous than advertised, and involved a lot of mundane database maintenance- that is, until Simmons moved a rank up in the company food chain and started getting other people to do it for him instead. Hardly any contact with the… _specimens_ themselves. The moments where Simmons could get up close and personal to the test subjects were few and far between, but never dull. And today, Simmons was about to experience one of those moments for himself, rather than eavesdropping water cooler conversations about his coworkers’ experiences.

The lead scientist’s favourite intern had been killed on the job, Simmons had been tasked to conduct an interview with one of the subjects in his stead while they arranged for the hire of a new intern.

It was a simple affair – the interview questions were already accounted for, and all Simmons had to do was read them off the paper. The subject was a werewolf, freshly recovered from transformation. He was a stocky, grey-haired, middle-aged man resolutely tucking into what looked like a _mixing bowl_ of stiff, lumpy grits, and from the rough buzz cut to the scars to the steely demeanour, Simmons didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that the creature was as dedicated to the military life as he was- although, admittedly, Simmons preferred the analytical track. It was, after all, no less important.

Taking a deep breath, Simmons sat opposite the werewolf, who acknowledged him by narrowing his eyes, furrowing his brow, and taking a slurp of steaming, black coffee out of a chipped enamel mug. The preferred name in the subject’s file was ‘Sarge.’ _Fitting_. “You’re not private Jimmy,” Sarge grumbled.

“No, sir.” Simmons hadn’t intended on calling Sarge ‘sir,’ it had just slipped out- but judging by the look he’d given him, Sarge didn’t seem to mind. “Private Jimmy was killed in action,” Simmons explained.

“Scalped by a robot. What a way to go.” Sarge said, twisting the cap off a bottle of hot sauce and beginning to douse the huge bowl of grits in it. “You’re his replacement?”

“Yes, sir, for today’s interview. Lieutenant Simmons.”

“Lieutenant, huh. First time speaking to someone who isn’t a private or pencilneck. ‘Bout time.”

“Thank you, sir.” Simmons brightened. _Finally, some recognition_. “Let’s begin the interview.”

Sarge nodded. Simmons thought he saw a tight-lipped smile of understanding- or better yet, _approval_, on the other man’s face, and sat up a little straighter.

“Today’s interview concerns your most recent transformation, which, according to the records, took place in… the subject containment quarters. It says here you broke containment into two adjoining cells and destroyed several personal effects of other subjects.”

“Yep.”

“The other subjects were unharmed, but it says here you _ate_ some of their belongings…… it says here, approximately four pounds of assorted processed snack foods, and three scented candles… packaging included.”

“Seems right.”

“Experiment notes say that prior to this, your meal plan was changed to a restricted diet, and they wanted to see what effects a restricted calorie intake would have on the mass of your transformation.”

Sarge gave an affirmative-sounding grunt through a mouthful of grits. “Change was happening. I told 'em before they put me on that cruddy diet, had to eat,” he said.

“So… why break into the adjoining cells? Why not break out altogether?”

Sarge grinned, and sat back in his seat. “I had a bone to pick with the neighbours.”

“Uh… can you elaborate?”

“You need enough energy to change completely, and that stupid fishboy next cell over was my one-way ticket to having enough calories to finish the job! All you can hear from him are those junk food packets at all hours, and lord knows that lazy son of a bitch can’t seem to choke on them and die as humanity intended for his like. I needed them ho-ho’s more n’ that fat, slippery, abomination did, that’s for sure.”

_That explains the junk food._

“And don’t even get me _started_ on that prissy vampire next to _him_. Smells like a goddamn bakery in there. He’s _taunting_ me, I just know it. Classic vampire-werewolf psychological warfare.”

Simmons looked again at the list of objects devoured during Sarge’s breakout. The missing scented candles were listed, in order, as ‘frosted cupcake,’ ‘fresh croissant’ and ‘s’more cheesecake’ flavoured.

“So, you ate the candles because they …smelled good?”

“Smelled good, and were _loaded with fat!_”

Simmons thought about it. _Soy based candles. _That meant the candles were composed of fat that was (conveniently for a rampaging werewolf) edible, and Simmons knew how much energy soy fats had from reading the nutritional information on his ration packets.

“That makes sense. Soy fat is edible, calorie-dense, so I guess it’d work well in a pinch.”

“_Exactly_! They’re the perfect emergency transformation food! Now if only they came in bacon flavour…”

“I’m certain they do, sir.” Simmons replied.

“You,” Sarge said, grinning, “would make a fine werewolf. Good work, son.”

Simmons left the interview room smiling. _You would make a fine werewolf_. Sarge was right. Dogs were loyal creatures, disciplined, and smart – perfect for a career in the army. Humans were intelligent, resourceful, and had opposable thumbs. Being a werewolf would have the strengths of both species, and if the stories were true about werewolves only needing to transform once a month, it meant that even the involuntary and unpredictable aspects of the condition would be easy to control. And vampires? Simmons rolled his eyes. Being vulnerable to “star, but too close”, silver, fancy religionwater or a common culinary herb felt like too many weaknesses, and needing to feed on human blood seemed too difficult a task to achieve discretely whilst enacting complex military strategies, not to mention whilst staying within the strict guidelines set out in the Geneva Conventions.

_Of course, I’d be a werewolf. Easy choice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/9/2019 update: changed title (thanks schrodingers_rufus) and edited some stuff
> 
> 6/9 (lol nice) 2019 update: updated some tags, edited the chapter title some, gave the chapter a more thorough edit. I think I'm done tinkering now. Also chapter 2's underway :>


	2. They Can't Stop All Of Us!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blues are introduced and Simmons cocks up at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I did something ambitious and wrote an absolute garbage fire of an exchange in not one, but three foreign languages. I'm only fluent in English, and have about five years of high school French under my belt, so unfortunately Google Translate had to help me out here. 
> 
> Also, keep in mind- Simmons is speaking "proper" phonetic Latin, with the letter "V" pronounced like "W" and all "C"'s pronounced like "K." Yes, this is a real thing and not a speech impediment. Yes, the Romans were insane. Yes, unfortunately you're going to have to go in and correct the spelling if you're google-translating as you read.
> 
> If you have no spoons to google translate it yourself though, worry not- there's a (rough) translation of the conversation available in the endnotes :>
> 
> (seriously though if anyone speaks spanish/latin/esperanto and spots an error please tell me.)

Richard Simmons- hopefully soon to be Lieutenant _First Class_ Richard Simmons- sprinted down the breached corridor, hurdled over the security barricade, and skidded to a stop in front of a squad of soldiers in full armour.

“Lieutenant Simmons, Sir!” He said, saluting; “I believe you require my expertise.”

The squad leader- a short, blonde woman in black armour- turned towards him, saying nothing.

_Shit_, thought Simmons. _Should I have said “ma’am?” Did I say it condescendingly? Did she think I was accidentally addressing her male squadmate? Fuck! I don’t want to be accidentally sexist! Damn you, unconscious biases!_

“Yeah, sure;” the woman said, unimpressed. “We have a hostile robot cornered in the vent trap, you just need to get in there and… pacify it for a minute.”

“Understood,” Simmons nodded. “I have seventeen years of experience with robots. How should I proceed? EMP? Remote virus? I can get those ready on the double.” Simmons was bending the truth a little. He did have seventeen years of experience with robots, it’s just that Simmons’ experience amounted to building and piloting small drones around obstacle courses for his weekend club. But it’s not like there _weren’t _any transferable skills from that pastime that could be used in the military.

“Uh, no,” said the squad leader. “It was in the middle of having its language programs installed when it went rogue. We called you because you have foreign language experience. You speak Spanish?”

Simmons blanched. “Oh- uh… no, I don’t.”

“What the fuck, Creighton?” snapped the squad leader at a tall soldier flicking quickly through a datapad. “He doesn’t speak Spanish!”

“His file said he was Latino!”

Creighton’s squad mates glared at him. Creighton looked towards Simmons apologetically.

“In that case, you misread the file. It says I have proficiencies in _Latin_, and Esperanto,” Simmons interjected. “I’m actually Dutch-Irish,” he added, as an afterthought.

“Well that’s fucking _useless,_” said the leader.

“It’s- it’s not a total loss,” Simmons said. “Latin is the progenitor of all the romance languages, including Spanish; and Esperanto was designed to be a combination of every European language’s most efficient elements. I know both, so that’ll get me at least some of the way there, right?”

Everyone looked at Simmons, and then each other, and then Simmons again. There was a long silence.

“…Sure, whatever.” The leader said. She gestured with the barrel of her rifle down the hallway. “Head down the tunnel and make a left, you’ll find the robot caged between two grates. We’ll cover you.”

Simmons saluted. “Can do, sir- I mean, ma’am!”

The squad leader shook her head. “Just fucking go already.”

* * *

Elsewhere in the facility, within a reinforced containment vessel made of ionised glass the size of a jumbo-sized jar of cheese puffs, Leonard Church fumed, giving off a pale grey-blue ectoplasmic vapour. 

Here he was, lucky enough to experience life without the burden of actually, well, _being alive_, and providence had sought to make his afterlife as shitty and annoying as possible. And it had done it by simply confining him to a shabbily-furnished rec room that had the sheer misfortune of having three other people in it- and one of them was the one who _put him there_ in the first place. Who had the audacity to be sitting in front of him, eating _goldfish crackers._ Through a _muzzle_. 

On the small, wall-mounted TV, _Thomas the Tank Engine_ was playing. Church levelled his focus on the wall bracket, hoping that if he willed hard enough, he could burst free from his chamber, rip the TV off the wall off the wall, and throw it at Caboose’s head.

Church heard a soft, gelatinous sound of someone sitting down next to him. 

“You okay, man? You’re more focused on the TV than Caboose is.”

“I’m not. Also, Caboose is _thirty years old_, and isn’t this shit supposed to be for kids?” Church grumbled. 

Tucker’s translucent teal face goo furrowed around his huge blue compound eyes. “Hey, go easy on him. Caboose spent like twenty-five of those years as a wolf. Earth years are long, he missed out on a lot of shit. The way I see it, he’s entitled to your kiddie channels.”

Church’s glare returned to Caboose. Caboose was _enormous_\- six foot seven inches tall, shoulders so broad he had to enter all doorways ducking sideways, all muscle and hairy legs and short, spiky black hair- and he was sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor, shiny brown eyes staring in rapt focus at the TV, pushing goldfish cracker after goldfish cracker with huge, thick fingers into a small gap in the side of the muzzle bolted to his face.

“I gotta say though, it’s nice to actually have a TV now,” Tucker said.

“Yeah,” Church said, glancing dolefully at Tucker’s belly; the skin of which was stretched taut across a rubbery blue-grey embryo the size of a regulation basketball. “It’s not as fun to watch Junior bounce around now he’s bigger.”

“Bullshit, he kicks sometimes!” Tucker said, defensively.

“Yeah, for a tiny little moment in time your round ass belly gets a lump in it where your spawn’s trying to get out of there. Whoop-dee-fuckin’-doo. It’s boring.”

Tucker prodded at the embryo growing inside him. “You hear this bullshit, little guy? You’re _boring._ You’re not even born yet and Church here’s saying I’m already failing as a parent.”

“If you think that turning out boring is the worst thing that you being a parent will do to that kid you are sorely mistaken.” Church said. “He’s gonna be all types of traumatised when you have to explain your taste in like, everything.”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him, junior,” he said to his stomach, “You’re being born in prison. That automatically makes you the toughest, awesomest baby that ever lived. Church is just a bitchy fart in a jar. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

* * *

Simmons turned on the torch and shone it down the bend in the vent that he was carefully making his way towards, and the fluorescent white beam rendered the arid dusty air with an eerie glow. Beyond it, two enormous security grates had descended. As Simmons crept closer, he saw that there was a person half-crushed under one of the grates where they had tried to crawl to freedom. He almost thought to turn back and call for a medic, but when he got closer, he realised the figure’s torso was sparking from a crack in its armoured shell, and beyond the grate, its legs were twitching in a manner far too programmed to be human. This was the robot.

Simmons cleared his throat. “**Saluton?**_” _he said, in clearly enunciated Esperanto. “_Salwe?”_ he followed up in Latin; ensuring to pronounce the “v” as a “w,” as the Romans would have done.

The faceless robot; painted a sensible, military brown; raised its head to fix its gaze on Simmons. <<_Excelente.>> _replied its buzzy, synthetic voice. <<_¿Cómo es esta base militar tan cerca de la frontera mexicana, pero no hay nadie en el personal que pueda hablar español?>>_

Simmons only caught the first two words, and exhaled in relief- the robot was glad to see him. He made an educated guess that the intonation of the rest of its sentence meant that the half-crushed robot was asking about help.

_“Quaeso, manere tranquillitas.” _said Simmons, speaking slowly, but clearly. **“Baldaŭ vi estos sekura.”**

<<_Lo siento, no entiendo que lengua hablas,_>> the robot stuttered. _<<¿Puedes por favor dejar de perder mi tiempo y ayudarme por favor?>>_

**“Mia nomo estas Simmons. Kiel mi povas helpi vin?” **said Simmons, approaching carefully, and gesturing to himself.

_<<¿Que carajo? ¿Estás hablando esperanto?>> _The robot’s arm jerked violently, spitting fat, white sparks. Simmons noticed its back half was lifeless and still- perhaps it was safe to let the grate up and let the heavy lifters retrieve the robot. 

Simmons slowly raised his hands, hoping to effectively communicate to the robot that _yes, he was unarmed, _and _yes, he was here to help_. _“Obsekro, ne sollikiti, wolo ad auxilium wobis._”

<<_¿Estás hablando latín, ahora?>> _said the robot, attempting to pull itself up on its elbows, before fruitlessly flopping back down. _<<¿Y tienes un discapacidad selectivo del habla? ¿Por qué eres competente en dos idiomas completamente inútiles?>>_

**“Mi ne damaĝos vin,” **Simmons said, bouncing his torchlight around the walls to find a release lever for the security grates.

_<<Ah sí, de repente lo recuerdo. No puedes entenderme. Nada de lo que digo es importante,>> _said the robot.

By lucky happenstance, Simmons caught the word _importante_ as his torch light grazed the corner of a dusty grey security panel. _“Hok est ille?”_

_<<¿Puedes hablar ingles, por favor? ¿Quizás pueda hacerme preguntas de "sí o no"? No puedo hablo ingles, pero puedo entenderlo con fluidez.>>_

Simmons heard _por favor_ and immediately took it as his cue to open the panel and fiddle with the controls. The grate shot up into the ceiling with an earth-shuddering _thunk_. There was a high-pitched whirring, as the robot tried to help itself to its feet. **“Estas bone,” **said Simmons, moving closer to the mangled robot.

_<<Eres un idiota. ¿Tus estimados capullos te han dicho que si me tocas, te mataré?>>_

Simmons crouched down. _“Tu autem salwus_,” he said, extending his arm towards the robot.

The robot said _<<Bueno, pendejo. Te lo adverti,>> _as it stiffly took Simmons’ hand.

Soon after, Simmons' agonized screams were echoing off the tunnel walls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simmons: [Esperanto] Hello? [Latin] Hello?
> 
> Lopez: [Spanish] Excellent. How is this military base so close to the mexican border, but there is no one on staff who can speak spanish?
> 
> S: [La] Please remain calm! [Es] You will be safe soon!
> 
> L: [Sp] Sorry, I don't understand what you're saying. Stop wasting my time and help me.
> 
> S: [Es] My name is Simmons. How can I help you?
> 
> L: [Sp] Gadzooks! Are you speaking Esperanto?
> 
> S: [La] Please don't worry, I'm here to help you!
> 
> L: [Sp] Are you speaking Latin now? And do you have a selective speech impediment? Why are you proficient in two completely useless languages?
> 
> S: [Es] I mean you no harm!
> 
> L: [Sp] Ah yes, I remember now. You can't understand me, so nothing I say matters.
> 
> S: [La] Is this it?
> 
> L: [Sp] Can you please speak English? Maybe ask me 'yes or no' questions? I can't speak English, but I can understand you fluently.
> 
> S: [Es] It's alright. 
> 
> L: [Sp] You're an idiot. Have your esteemed colleagues outside told you yet that if you touch me, I'll imprint on you like a baby duckling?
> 
> S: [La] You're safe now.
> 
> L: [Sp] Well, buddy, I warned you.


End file.
